Wasted World | Episode 2

windows at the front of the Hudson’s Bay store they were shopping in blew inside all over the display mannequins, everybody started screaming and running. And over all that yelling and rumbling, Amanda heard Roy talking through the speakers—directing people to safety, telling them how to behave, trying to calm them.
“I’m sorry,” Michael said. He sat next to her against the wall and offered her his hand. Amanda took it and squeezed her lion tighter in the other arm. “Maybe he’s already gone. Maybe he took what he wanted and left the mall.”
“He’s still here,” Amanda whispered. “That song’s still playing.”
Most of the shoppers had disregarded Roy’s soft pleading. They had fled through the broken windows, and climbed over the collapsed sliding door frames, desperate to leave the stores behind, and to discover what was left outside. Helen hadn’t been one of them. She kept her children close and sided with Roy.
Listen to the man on the speakers, guys. Stay calm and do as he says.
Michael and Amanda had heard the distant popping sounds before their mother. People were still screaming even though the worst of it was over. The popping got louder, and their mom said there was a reasonable explanation. Probably just the power trying to turn back on.
Michael had tugged at his mother’s arm. I think we should get out of here.
People were running from the mall plaza and heading fast for the Bay exits. A big woman knocked Amanda down in her rush to escape. Amanda had seen the woman stop in her tracks twenty feet ahead; a red spot appeared in the center of her fat back. It spread out over the white fabric of her sweater, like a rose blossoming in fast motion. She fell to floor, and her face made a cracking noise as it bounced off the tiles.
Helen pulled her daughter back up. Your brother’s right, we have to get out... now.
Amanda had been certain she was going to say more; she had seen her lips opening. That’s when the loudest pop of them all went off. That’s when something warm splattered across Amanda’s forehead and cheek. The top third of her mother’s head had disappeared. Amanda wiped bits of brain and skull from her face as Helen Fulger dropped to her knees. The hand holding Amanda’s arm loosened, then fell away. The rest of the dead woman flopped over the girl’s running shoes.
“Well we can’t stay here forever,” her brother was saying. “Sooner or later we’ll have to go somewhere else.”
“Where can we go, Michael? Maybe it’s even worse outside the mall.”
“I doubt that.”
They sat in silence and watched as the small flame in the candle glass started to flicker and sputter. Michael leaned forward and poured the melted wax onto the floor. He righted the glass carefully, not wanting to drown the remaining bit of light left.
Amanda squeezed his hand. “Maybe they got some candles in that coffee store, too.”
“We can’t go... You said it yourself. That dumb song is still playing.”
“Well maybe he’s got a cell phone hooked up to the speakers and maybe he’s got it set on repeat. Maybe he left a long time ago... just like you said.”
Michael was shaking his head. That music has been playing for days. Any old cell phone battery would’ve died by now. No, that fat fucker is still here.”
“Don’t swear.”
“Sorry.”
The song played through and started up again. The candle burned itself out, and the twins were left cowering in complete blackness.

Chapter 2
They’d started running after their mother was killed. Or Michael was running—Amanda was being pulled along. They hid behind a big square bin of men’s socks and listened to the gunfire. Pop. Pop. Pop. There had been clicking sounds between the shots; reloading. Pop. Pop. Pop. Michael and Amanda lifted their heads slowly up over the bin and saw him. It was a security guard. He was wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt and black tie. His thick forearms were covered with hair as black as his tie, and his head was shiny bald.
He hadn’t said a word since entering the big store. He just kept shooting people—all kinds of people. He shot store employees and shoppers alike. An old man stuck in his overturned wheelchair begged for mercy. The fat guard shot him in the temple. A teenager was running up the steps of a stilled escalator—he shot her in the back, butt, and both legs. Both big fists were gripping revolvers. The fat mass of single jowl under his chin shook with the ferocity of each shot. Massive dark circles had stained the underarms of his shirt. The sweat glistened off his scalp and leaked into his bushy eyebrows. He was breathing in and out hard, huffing like a big animal. Amanda thought he was running out of steam—that he might drop dead from a heart attack—but then she realized it was adrenaline pushing him on. He was grinning sadistically. He was enjoying it.
And then he’d turned quickly and spotted them.
In that brief moment, Amanda had seen two things. Number one: she saw the guns being pointed directly at them. Number two: The plastic identification badge clipped to his damp chest had been covered over with a wide piece of masking tape. The name ROY was scrawled there in big, red felt-marker letters.
Pop. Pop.
Michael had pulled her back down as an explosion of wood chips and socks rained over their backs. They scurried on their hands and knees into racks of men’s trousers and work pants and didn’t stop moving until they were in the women’s’ department.
Roy’s attention had been diverted. He was busy shooting other people.
Why aren’t they screaming anymore? Why are they dying so quietly?
 
“What?”
“When he was shooting them... why didn’t they scream?” She asked in a whisper. They had spoken